A head of little emerald leaves
calls to me from my veggie plot
Supple & without blemish
my beloved lettuce—though in my sink
toughened & yellowed.
I dunk the sullied mass & rip
blighted matter off. Leaves
congested—dirt stuck within
a throng of tiny glistening greens
held close.
Upon shaking a bunch, a bug crawls out—
My fingers open green ridges—
I dunk and dunk again—
how much more dirt comes out.
Is perfection always beyond our fingers—
perpetually insisting on one more dunking?
Deep within I expect complete purity.
Enough—kindness deserved or not!
Greens make salad—a bit of dirt or not.
feasting at a resurrection table.